


A Cat on the Balustrade

by smirc



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, post-canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 17:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smirc/pseuds/smirc
Summary: The cats of Kings Landing came and went as they pleased. Arya Stark was no different.





	A Cat on the Balustrade

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give you guys some content while I drag my feet with Charmer.

A common man was more likely to successfully control a dragon than he was to command the cats of Kings Landing. They were an ornery, territorial lot, and they bore their life history on their faces; missing or cloudy eyes, tabbed ears and crooked tails told stories of violence and survival. They lived without the concepts of decorum or ownership, and did not pay mind to closed doors and the message they carried. 

The most bold of the cats that occupied the Red Keep would invade Daenerys’ private quarters. An orange tomcat used to keep her company, but he stopped coming around when a massive black creature had taken to sunning himself on the wide balustrade of her balcony. Even when she closed her door, he still found his way inside, walking along the thin ledges that jutted out from the towering castle walls. 

Daenerys found it amusing, but her advisors did not. 

_ “If a cat can get in, so can a cutthroat,” _Ser Barristan had cautioned. 

_ “You would be better served if the Red Keep was lit more thoroughly during the night, Your Grace,” _Lord Varys had said. 

Daenerys had rebuked them. _ “A cutthroat would have a far greater chance of success imitating an emissary than he would scaling the walls of the Red Keep. My guards are no fools, and the routes they follow coincide with such strict time schedules that an invader would need to scale many walls with a window of opportunity as short as a couple of seconds. And seeing as the walls are so well lit, there is no need to mount torches along my balcony, or anything equally as ridiculous.” _

_ “Perhaps a brazier?” _Lord Varys had tried. 

There may have been a fraction of humor mixed with his otherwise serious offer, but Daenerys had been in no mood for jokes. She could have been with Missandei that morning, visiting an orphanage near the Roseroad. 

_ “Perhaps we should drop the matter entirely—perhaps I should order it dropped.” _

So now Daenerys lived under the constant threat of a cat sunning itself on her covered balcony, lazing on the strip of sunlight that warmed the balustrade. 

One morning, after being called away at sunrise to attend a meeting about fires in Duskendale, Daenerys returned to her room with a covered clay pot of bread, cheese, grapes and a small portion of boiled beef. The meeting had carried on for hours, so it was time she broke her fast. 

She sat atop a bent leg on the edge of her bed, the clay pot, now uncovered, resting beside her, opposite the pillows. The _ click _of long nails was Daenerys’ only warning before her black cat leapt up onto her bed, the clay pot between them. 

Daenerys smiled. If it were any other cat, she would chance a quick petting, but her black stormcloud would only hiss and run away. 

“I’ve brought you a morsel, but no more,” Daenerys said, little conviction in her tone. She pulled the beef from the pot and held out a small, thin chunk. In his advanced age, her black cat was missing several teeth, so small pieces went down the easiest. In a flash he snapped up the beef with an audible _click_ of his remaining teeth. He ate noisily, almost as if voicing his satisfaction. 

Daenerys absentmindedly snacked on grapes with the hand not continually feeding her black cat beef. When all the pieces were gone, her black cat surprised her by snatching up a small chunk of bread before dashing towards the balcony. 

“Rascal,” Daenerys murmured, a small smile lifting her lips. 

-

The Queen and her black cat developed a routine: she would have a small portion of food set aside for him with whatever meals she ate in her room, and he would sit and eat with her until she ran out of food to give him. On the surface, it appeared to be a one-sided affair, but Daenerys found herself appreciating the quiet companionship likely more than was healthy. 

The rest of her world seemed to be full of so much noise, but her stormcloud was content to chew noisily beside her in otherwise tranquil silence. 

_‘It is not the best company,’_ Daenerys thought one morning as she watched her stormcloud sprint for the balcony with his belly full. She recalled late nights in several taverns, in Winter Town and along the Kingsroad, spent drinking wine and talking freely by a fire years before. _‘But it is good enough.’ _

-

A year and a half into the early spring, Daenerys was still sharing her meals with her flighty stormcloud. She normally brought him beef or fish, but today the cooks had passed her a deep, covered clay pot brimming with chicken stew and a large roll of soft, sweet bread. 

Voice soft and tired, Daenerys called, “Stormcloud?” He had taken to spending nights asleep on one of the marble benches on her balcony, so he was usually present for the meals she took in her private quarters. A low rumble told her that her black cat was around. “There is a largely intact chicken leg floating around in here for y—”

Daenerys stopped suddenly, her chicken stew sloshing in its covered pot. Sat atop her balustrade was her stormcloud, but also a woman. She had one foot planted rudely on the stone while the other dangled, and between her casually spread legs sat Daenerys’ stormcloud, who seemed content to allow the woman to scratch beneath his chin. 

Any person in their right mind would have screamed for their guards, but the figure’s cloak was down. No matter how many years passed, the Queen would not forget the face of Arya Stark. 

“Is the recipient of that chicken leg up for debate?” Arya asked, her smile a faint uptick of her lips. 

Daenerys straightened her spine even as her face brightened with a welcoming grin. There was a mixture of feelings present, but Daenerys settled on something between elated, and solid in her conviction that it was not fair for Arya to vanish and reappear as she pleased. “I’m afraid not. The cat is a regular visitor, and as such enjoys unique benefits you are not privy to.”

Arya dipped her head in understanding. “Harsh, but reasonable.” Her slight smile morphed into a mischievous grin. “I’m sure I can charm Rosemary into passing me some bread and a wineskin when I make my way down to the kitchens.”

Daenerys quirked a brow. “You’re wandering my castle, now?” 

“You’re the one who won’t share,” Arya teased, voice low and calm. Her shoulders were slumped; she was tired. “I’ll have to forage.” 

“A true tragedy,” Daenerys agreed dryly.

She walked over to the balcony, and set her clay pot on a bench, and the sweet roll wrapped in cloth beside it. This drew her stormcloud, who leaped from his vantage point beside Arya to sit next to his dinner. 

“Disloyal creatures, cats are,” Arya muttered. Her smile and fond tone kept her words light. 

“Though friendly, it seems—with you,” Daenerys said, curiosity evident. She made no move to approach the lounging woman, but she allowed her eyes to wander along fine cloth riding breeches and a long woolen overshirt. Her cowl was such a dark green it approached black, and it hung from her neck like a desert scarf. There was dirt on her cheek. 

_‘Where have you been?’_

“When I was a child here, Syrio would have me chase the cats of the Red Keep to learn to be swift and silent.” Arya smiled down at her hands, covered in small nicks and blemishes. How many were from the cats of the Red Keep? Surely they would have faded? “And maybe to begin developing a tolerance for pain. Cat claws are terribly sharp.” 

Daenerys remembered the stories about Syrio, though the one that had stuck with her the most was one that Arya had shared late one night in Winterfell, after the war, her face flush with wine. Her instructor—_“m‘father disguised him as a bloody dancing master, y’know”_—had faced off against three members of the Kingsguard, unarmed, on the day Eddard Stark had been betrayed and imprisoned so that Arya could escape. 

Syrio Forel, the man who went to war with a wooden sword. 

“So I caught every cat that lived in the Keep,” Arya continued. She nodded in the direction of Daenerys’ stormcloud. “He was the last one I caught, and he left a mean scar on my thumb to remind me of the day.” 

“So this battle of wills resulted in friendship?” Daenerys asked, no small amount of humor in her fond tone. 

Arya puffed out an amused exhale. “Not quite,” she replied. “The abilities my siblings and I share... they have a lot of potential. Bran wargs ravens to scout the land. Sansa calms horses—once, she says, she said hello to Nymeria in the Wolfswood. I... I’ve used it for years. I can see through the eyes of a rat, of a hawk or dog—though wolves have always been the easiest.” She grinned. “And it’s also much easier to catch cats, _and_ to get them to stop being so ornery with me.” 

Daenerys grinned down at her lap. She looked up a moment later when her stormcloud had the gall to meow loudly at her, one of his large paws against the lid hiding his chicken stew. 

The Queen sighed. “If only you could imbue him with some manners.” 

“I cannot teach skills I don’t possess, Your Grace.” 

The dry look Daenerys affixed Arya with was softened by the sheer fondness that otherwise lit up her features. Not many people could truthfully describe the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as ‘_soft in appearance’_, but with Arya, it was uncontrollable. 

“Aside from the time you joined Prince Trystane in an awful competition spitting cherry pits, you’re quite graceful.” 

Arya snorted softly. “You’ve never seen me eat a minced meat pie after weeks on the road.” 

“I do recall, however, you tearing into a whole chicken during the ride to Kings Landing,” Daenerys rebutted teasingly. It was nearly a year after Jon Snow had slain the Night King when Daenerys had marched south with the support of the North. Arya had rode in front, and Daenerys interacted with her a great deal as a result. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so ravenous over overcooked poultry.” 

The Queen lifted the lid off her pot of stew. Steam curled up towards heavens. Her stormcloud licked his chops preemptively, a short rumble in his throat signaling his eagerness, and his impatience. 

Behaving not quite like how a queen ought to—not that Daenerys gave much care to such thoughts in the privacy her quarters—she plucked a chicken leg quickly from the stew, ignoring the sting of the hot broth, and set it down in front of her black cat. He was no fool, he knew it was too hot for him, so he sat and waited for the chilly spring night to cool his dinner. 

Daenerys looked up at Arya and smiled at the false unamused look she wore. 

“Come,” Daenerys said, caught between a command and a request. 

“I don’t want to take—”

“_Come_,” Daenerys repeated, her soft tone brokering no argument. 

Arya slid off the balustrade and slinked over to sit beside Daenerys. The Queen moved the pot of stew between them, and passed Arya the sweet roll wrapped in cloth. While Arya ate half of the roll, Daenerys supped on the stew, and when Arya’s half of the roll had vanished, they switched. 

It would have been a simple matter to summon a servant to bring more food, but Daenerys was loathe to walk even the inconsequential distance to her door in order speak first with a guard. 

The extended, gentle quiet between them was something the Queen rarely enjoyed with anyone; she wasn’t interested in ending it so quickly. 

When the stew was finished, Arya took the empty pot from Daenerys’ hands and set it on the floor beside their bench. The Queen’s stormcloud remained on the bench beside them, a bare chickenbone before his massive paws. 

The trio sat in quiet silence after their food was done for only a couple moments. The black cat rose, his tail trailing along Daenerys’ arm in something like an affectionate goodbye before he leapt up onto the balustrade and vanished into the night. 

“I call him Balerion,” Arya said wistfully. “‘The Black Dread’ was always so fitting, though I think he was bigger when I was a child.” 

“You were also smaller when you were a child,” Daenerys remarked teasingly, her voice low and slow with the pleasant tiredness that always washed over her after she ate a good meal. 

“Very true, Your Grace.” 

“Daenerys.” 

“Daenerys,” Arya agreed, chin falling to her chest. 

The Queen examined Arya’s profile. For all the little marks on her face, she was beautiful. The raised scar above her brow, the thin line across the uppermost part of her forehead, the few thin, pale scars around the plump pink of her lips from when her skin had been split from abuse—all of these lasting records of history failed to hinder Arya’s visual charm. Daenerys found her nose cute, and her faint uneven tan even moreso—_‘You’ve been somewhere sunny, then.’ _

“Where have you been, Arya?” Daenerys asked suddenly, her mouth moving before her mind could be fully present. 

It did not take Arya long to respond. “More places than I think I’m able to recall.” 

“Try, please.” 

Arya’s booted feet slid into a position where, should she stand, she would be in a strong stance to begin fighting. 

“I like to wander, Daenerys,” Arya said. “Thought I confess that I didn’t have much in the way of plans or direction when I began. I did things I once dreamt of doing—I sailed along the Rhoyne, raced horses on old, abandoned Valyrian roads, spent far too much coin on purple honeycomb in Pentos—lots of things. Essos became a fraction of a bit more bearable with the dying winter chill during those two years...” 

Arya spoke in soft tones, her voice only rising when she retold the speech of others, or when she found herself laughing not because anything was funny, but because she felt joy. 

“—and this turtle, Daenerys, this turtle was larger than a draft horse—”

Daenerys was captivated by the almost childlike excitement that took over Arya’s features as she told her stories. She had never seen her friend look so _alive_ before.

“—the forest of Qohor is stunning, but the animals aren’t very agreeable unless they’re prey, and the prey animals mess with my head—”

_‘This was good for you,’_ Daenerys thought. _‘This was what you needed, what you wanted.’_

“—the Free Cities drained me, and I didn’t want to hike past the Bone Mountains, so I returned to Dorne first, and hopped from ship to ship until I was close enough to march through one of the roads into King’s Landing.” 

_‘I wanted to be the queen. I am who the people need.’ _

“And now—” Arya paused, privately surprising Daenerys with her full, toothy smile, “—I’m here, with you.” 

“A fine ending to this chapter of your adventures, I hope.” 

“I think so.” 

Daenerys met Arya’s gaze, and felt an invisible hand pinch her heart. Not many people would describe Arya Stark as _soft_, but she certainly looked it. Daenerys had only seen her this relaxed in a handful of cases, and there was normally wine involved. 

“I... I’m glad.” 

Daenerys believed that there was an inherent gentleness to true affection—gentle hands, a gentle ruffle of hair, a gentle hand at the small of a back—and that was how she orchestrated herself: with great care and a slight hand. She slid her hands around one of Arya’s own and slowly pulled it into her lap, idly toying with her fingers. 

“I could have written to you,” Arya murmured, her fingers flexing between Daenerys own when the Queen linked their hands. “I’m sorry that I didn’t.” 

“I forgive you,” Daenerys whispered. 

Whenever true excitement or nervousness overcame her, Daenerys could feel the energy build up in her muscles; she would tremble with the power of her feelings. 

Sweet, kind Arya took Daenerys’ trembling as her being cold. She pulled her hand from Daenerys’ and pulled the Queen against her with an arm around her slim shoulders. Without hesitation, Arya’s free hand reached over into Daenerys’ lap to tangle their fingers together once more.

“You should reconsider having the balcony doors reinstalled. Spring is fair but it still—”

“I don’t want to talk about balcony doors,” Daenerys said. Her excitement and nervousness seemed to drum a beat against her ribs—was that her heart? It was loud and harsh, the pulse spreading from her tight throat to her toes where they flexed against the stone floor. 

“We don’t have to talk at all, if you’d like.” 

_‘We should,’_ Daenerys thought._ ‘She’s been gone for so long.’ _

“Just be with me,” Daenerys breathed, leaning into Arya. They were of similar height, with Arya only slightly her superior, so their temples touched almost evenly. Their eyes closed simultaneously. 

Daenerys could hear Arya swallow. “I can do that.” 

The Queen cursed the sudden bout of emotion that made her throat tight. Her eyes didn’t burn with her tears; instead they shook with them, fighting to stay closed.

“_Good_,” she whispered, breath hitching. 

It wasn’t as though Arya had _died_, for the sake of the gods, but Daenerys had not enjoyed such closeness, such quiet and peace, in what felt like an eternity. How long had it been since she had sat while Missandei braided her hair? Since Ser Barristan strolled beside her through the streets, humming a merry tune and saying nothing more? When had her life become small moments with an aloof cat, and long hours dealing with the affairs of seven sprawling kingdoms? 

When had she gotten so used to Arya’s absence, that her return could affect Daenerys so deeply? 

With a minute flex of her arm and a press of her feet against the stone floor, Arya had moved closer and pulled Daenerys more firmly against her body. Warm, faintly chapped lips pressed themselves against the wet corner of one of Daenerys’ eyes, and the queen tucked her head against Arya’s neck in response.

“I missed you,” Daenerys murmured. 

“And I you,” Arya replied, nuzzling into Daenerys’ hair like a cat might. 

_‘If I asked you to stay, would you?’_

Without moving from her position tucked into Arya’s neck, Daenerys asked, “Come with me?” 

Arya didn’t know where, but she agreed. “Yes.” 

Daenerys rose, emboldened by Arya’s response. She pulled Arya towards her bed by the hand, walking backwards to look her in the eye until the last possible moment so she could shed her simple evening dress and crawl beneath the covers. She closed her eyes when Arya did not join her, and waited with baited breath as the woman blew out the few candles still lit in her quarters. Then a warm body, devoid of a wool overshirt and cloth breeches, curled against her back.

Daenerys searched blindly for a hand, and upon finding one, pulled it to her lips to kiss scarred knuckles and rough fingertips with the same slow reverence a septa might mouth a prayer. When she pressed her lips to Arya’s thumb, the last finger to receive her affection, the hand she held pressed against her shoulder and pushed the Queen flat on her back. 

“Arya...” 

Arya hovered over Daenerys, one strong arm posted beside the Queen’s head to keep her there. She was cast in silver tones, no traces of firelight on her skin now that only the moon had the power to reach them through the windows. 

“The next time I leave,” Arya said, voice thick with confessions she had yet to make, “it will only be with you by my side.” 

Arya leaned down just as Daenerys craned her neck upward, and they met in the middle for a kiss that should have happened years ago. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so if you want to get technical, a balustrade is a thingy held up by balusters, and it’s technically called a handrail or a parapet or some shit, but it’s two in the fucking morning and I think this is pretty okay. 
> 
> I’ve felt really off my game the last week or so. This fic is one of my attempts to regain my mojo.


End file.
